i may never have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
this

sun bleached
pavement of rt 89
that crawls its way
through tiny towns
over hills
and around
haze kissed
blue water

a tickle
of crisp
cider

wine
swirling
splashing

it all pools together
in my head
terms and types and
flavors

spontaneously fermented
ambient yeast

funky orange wine
geodesic concrete

ducks and geese
and state regulations

i want to take notes
pour drops on
the page
absorb every
milliliter of
information

hold it in my hand
and squeeze
until streams of
honey and pear
citrus and ginger
and every other
golden
unattainable ideal
run through
my hands

until the cold weather climate
native pink catawba
fermenting inside me
turns into something more
than the sum of its
component parts

saying i want it
doesn’t even begin
to cover it
it’s not just want

it's an ache
and the
ache is lust
impure and sticky
trapping itself between
my fingers

the ache is greed
green and trailing
the ache is desire
blue and rolling
the ache is passion
blood red and dripping

the ache
sinks itself
into my skull
like a nail

the antidote
is the very
thing that
caused it

pain and comfort
are both the same
and they come
in an opaque bottle
with a label that says
"made in new york"

so was i
and when i die
i hope i come back
as a cat
on an old man’s
patio or the echo in
a cavernously empty
tasting room

the sediment in
the bottom of your glass
the urge to try
something new

i don’t know what
my future holds
but i know
i’ll always have

this moment
moss on rocks that
have never had a
chance to dry out
water pouring out
of a pipe
in the side of a hill
into my insulated cup
the coldest
purest
most delicious
beverage my
this day
has to offer

i don’t know what
my future holds
but something tells me
i’ll be okay

and i may not have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
today